I also understood my father’s pain and confusion as he tried to navigate the loss of his mother who had been a part of his life for 67 years, whom he’d visited once a week, then twice, three times, and finally nearly every day as she grew older and frailer.

My father had been on his way home to get a siddur to recite Vidui next to his mother’s bed when she’d passed away. From that moment onward, he struggled to assert the importance of abiding by halachah without offending his relatives — all of whom had zero interest in or regard for Jewish law. He mostly failed.

My father is trying the best he can to make up for 65 plus years without Torah and mitzvos. Despite everyone’s assurances that he’d done the best he could, he still carries a pang of regret for not asking sooner, “Where is G-d, and what does he want from me?” After a life lived outside of Jewish law, he so badly wanted to do his mother’s funeral right. And this desire caused and continues to cause familial strife.

I understood his eagerness, and I understood how frustrated the rest of the family was. It was all understandable.

What I didn’t understand were my own complicated feelings.

From across the ocean, I watched on the screen of my cell phone as my grandmother’s body was lowered into the ground, wondering if the neshamah, as it made its final journey through the world of the living, had made its way here, too. And I wondered how it happened that after 3,000 years of history, I am the only grandchild married to a Jew, having Jewish children.

I’m mourning my grandmother, whose face lit up when she played with my children, who loved my husband from the moment she met him, even if she didn’t understand why he needs to wear those strings, why she couldn’t bake us cookies in her oven, or why the Seder had to start at 9:30 p.m.

I’m mourning the closeness with my extended family, the futures we thought we’d share. Cousin trips to Mexico. Music festivals at Red River Gorge in Colorado. Living next door to my brothers. Raising our kids together.

I’m mourning this reality, in which it’s more of a rejection of my family to become religious than to marry a non-Jew.

At the same time, I’m grateful that somehow, for some reason I have yet to comprehend, I was led on the path towards living a fully Jewish life. It’s a privilege and responsibility. If I’m honest, sometimes it feels like a burden I can barely hold.

I’ve come to understand that even the right choices have consequences. I definitely do not regret becoming religious, but I acknowledge that things have changed. No matter how loving and accepting I am, and how much effort I put forth, I have limits.

We have the same conversations over and over again: I cannot go out on Shabbos. I cannot eat out at our family’s favorite restaurant. I cannot join your spring break vacation to the Bahamas. I cannot go to your wedding on Shavuos. Yes, it’s an important holiday, even if you’ve never heard of it.

One can see those limits as me being rigid, inflexible, or small-minded. And despite my best efforts, many people do.

I’ve come to understand that we are all so many things at once.

I am my grandmother’s granddaughter who loved to catch snakes in the creek by her house, who felt the earth’s pulse when I listened to my father play the guitar on the back porch, who spoke to G-d in the woods as a little girl, not because anyone told her to, but because it seemed obvious He was listening.

I am a woman who did many things I regret, and who saw many things I’d never want my children to see.

I’m a mom and a wife and a friend who’s trying to find the good within the murky waters of an ambiguous, messy world.

I am a human being who is deeply happy while simultaneously experiencing pain.

I am a conglomerate of forces, trying my best to make decisions in accordance with G-d’s will.

I will try to make my grandmother proud, to do things to elevate her soul, to maintain warmth and peace with my intermarried and nonobservant relatives while remaining strong in my knowledge that Hashem runs the world and has high expectations of me.

I will put up walls when I need to and tear them down when I need to. And I will try to love each Jew as unconditionally as she did me.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 692)